The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

LEAVING LARKIN QUILL to cross back over Redonnelin Deep to his home, there to await their signal that they required a return, Angel and her Elven companions set out once more for Syrring Rise. It was midmorning when they began their trek north, but the journey turned out to be anything but what Angel had expected.

"How far do we have to go?" she asked Simralin after enough time had passed that it had become a concern.

"Just a few more miles," the Elven girl answered, glancing over her shoulder from her lead position, unable to conceal her grin.

Angel peered ahead. There were mountains, but they were some distance off and none of them was particularly distinctive. She guessed she just wasn't seeing what she was supposed to see, that Syrring Rise was lost in the larger mass or in the dirty haze that hung like a pall over most of what lay ahead, a reminder of how bad the air had been pol–luted.

They trekked on without saying much, making what progress they could through country that was choked with wintry stands of weeds and scrub amid rocky flats and rises. Angel's thoughts drifted to her old life and Johnny, and then to little Ailie, her doomed conscience. The tatterdemalion hadn't had much chance to exercise that conscience, even though she had stated on their first meeting that this was her self–appointed goal. A creature who lived an average of thirty days, and she had offered herself as a voice of reason to a Knight of the Word—a Faerie creature trying to help a human. It seemed incongruous and somehow sad. She wished for what must have been the hundredth time that she could have found a way to save her tiny friend.

They were in the middle of wilderness by now, in country empty of buildings and roads and anything living. There wasn't so much as a ro–dent poking its head from its burrow or a bird circling the sky. Heavy, dead trees clustered together in skeletal bundles, as if they had sought comfort from one another at the end. Grasses were spiky and gray with sickness and death. Dust lay thick on the ground everywhere, rising in small explosions from their footfalls. In the distance, the mountains loomed dark and bare, no closer now than they had been an hour ago.

"Exactly how far is it to Syrring Rise?" Angel asked impatiently.

Simralin stopped a moment, unslung her waterskin, and took a deep drink. "On foot, about two weeks. As the crow flies, about a hun–dred miles." She nodded toward the mountain range. "On the other side of that."

Angel stared. "Two weeks? We don't have two weeks!"

Simralin nodded. "Don't worry. We'll be there before dark." She shouldered the waterskin anew. "You'll see, Angel. Trackers know how to get where they want to in ways that others don't."

An enigmatic comment that Angel felt inclined to challenge, but she decided not to. She glanced at Kirisin, who shrugged his lack of un–derstanding but at the same time seemed confident that his sister could do what was needed. Angel wished she could have that kind of confi–dence in someone, but she didn't even have it in herself

. They continued on for a short time, not much more than another half an hour, arriving at a broad, thick stand of huge old conifers, their once green needles turned silvery by nature and the elements. It was a strange sight, the trees stretching away for miles in all directions, seemingly all the way to the lower slopes of the mountains west. Without hesitating, Simralin took them directly into their center, striding ahead confidently, her blond hair a silken shimmer in the hazy light. Angel and Kirisin followed, neither saying anything. The woods were deep and gray and silent, and the emptiness was its own presence.

Such places bothered Angel, who preferred the stones and bricks and con–crete of the city. In the city, you could find your way. Here, there was nothing to tell you even so much as the direction in which you were going. The trees blocked the mountains. The haze diffused the sunlight. Everything looked the same.

Then abruptly the terrain changed from dust and scrub to an un–even hardpan that the wind had swept clear of everything loose. There were strange, twisted trees with spiky leaves and peeling bark set in among the conifers. There were tall stands of scrub, some of them more than six feet high. In minutes, they were deep into this new stand of fo–liage, and Angel was hopelessly lost. Her hands tightened on her staff, reassuring herself that she was not entirely powerless. But the woods seemed to press in against her anyway, threatening to suffocate her, to steal away her power.

"I hate this," she muttered.

Kirisin looked over and nodded, but said nothing.

Angel was just beginning to wonder if this was leading to anything when the trees opened before them and they found themselves at the edge of a broad, shallow ravine surrounding a rocky flat on which two piles of brush covered a pair of square–shaped objects; what might once have been a third pile lay scattered about on the rocks nearby.

For the first time, Simralin hesitated, her forehead furrowing with concern. "There should be three," she said, mostly to herself, but loud enough that her companions could hear her. "What happened to the third?"

Angel moved a few steps closer, right to the edge of the ravine, and peered at the two that were still covered. "Are those baskets of some sort?" she asked in surprise.

Simralin nodded. "They are. But there should be another. Wait here."

She crossed the ravine, walking down into it and climbing out the other side, then moving over to the discarded pile of brush, peering in–tently at the ground. When she had seen enough, she cast about at the surrounding woods, and then looked back at them. "I can't be sure. The ground is too rocky for a clear read. One man, I think. But it could be more. I don't understand it. We don't have any Trackers out this way just now."

She knelt, studying the footprints a second time. "Nothing special about the few scuffs I can make out." She shook her head. "If it was the demons, I could read the marks from that cat thing. But if it was just the other …" She trailed off. "All right. Come on over."

Angel crossed with Kirisin and stood looking down at ground so hard and rocky it told her absolutely nothing. She could not under–stand how Simralin had determined as much as she had. "What's going on?" she asked. "What are we doing here?"

"Uncover one of those baskets," she said by way of response. "Kirisin can help. Remove everything you find packed in the bottom, separate it, and spread it out on the ground. Don't try to attach any of it. Leave that to me. I'll be back in a moment."

She walked back down into the ravine, out the other side, and off into the trees until she could no longer be seen. Angel looked at Kirisin, and together they moved over to the closest basket, pulled off the dead limbs and brush concealing it—Angel thinking as they did so that this sort of concealment would only work against someone looking down from above, not someone who somehow happened upon it–and peered down into the basket interior. The basket was divided into four compartments, interlocking partitions that sectioned the interior and served as bracing for the sides. A tightly folded piece of material was shoved into the bottom along with various ropes, metal locking clasps, and hoses.

"What is this?" Angel asked the boy.

Kirisin shook his head. "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it."

Together they emptied the contents of the basket on the ground, laying out all the pieces separately as Simralin had told them to do. The material turned out to be a lightweight fabric that Angel could not identify, thin but strong, a mottled gray and white in color. Once it was unfolded and spread out, it took on a recognizable shape.

"This looks like a balloon," Angel said.

"A hot–air balloon," Simralin amended, striding out of the ravine once more. "Which is what will get us where we're going."

She was carrying several solar cells and what looked to be some sort of small motor. She put the solar cells into the basket and the motor on the ground next to the mouth of the balloon.

"This is a burner," she advised, gesturing at the motor. She hooked up one end of the hose to a nozzle and shoved the other into the mouth of the balloon. "It heats the air and feeds it into the bag, which inflates. When the bag is full, it lifts the basket and its occupants off the ground.

She flipped a switch, and the burner roared to life, breaking the si–lence. Slowly, the balloon began to fill. "Elven Trackers use these bal–loons for long–distance travel. We keep them hidden away in a handful of places on both sides of the mountains. Humans invented them, but we saw a use for them, too. Our Trackers began appropriating them a generation ago. We were using them even before your government col–lapsed, but after the wars started we began using them more fre–quently. We found it impossible to move about as we once had. Much of the open country was flooded with militia and mutated creatures. Much of it was dangerously poisoned. And travel time became a more important factor in many instances. The balloons helped us solve those problems."

"Elves using human technology," Angel murmured, shaking her head.

"Once in a while." Simralin grinned. "We know enough to take ad–vantage of a good thing. I'll show you another example when we get to Syrring Rise."

She gave the pile of brush to one side a quick glance. "We had three, but someone has taken one.

Took some cells and a burner, too. All that equipment was hidden back in the rocks. Only long–range Trackers know where all that is; stumbling over it by accident is highly unlikely."

She shook her head, turning to the ropes and clasps. "Here. Help me attach these to the balloon and the basket," she said.

Under her direction, they made the balloon ready, watching the bag fill and begin to lift slowly off the ground. By that time, they had it firmly attached and had placed the burner and their gear inside the bas–ket. Ropes tied to old logs and dead trees held the basket grounded as it strained to rise skyward. When Simralin was satisfied that it was ready, she ordered the other two into the basket, climbed in after them, released the restraining ropes, and they were off.

Madre de Dios, Angel thought.

It was like nothing she had ever experienced. The earth dropped away as they ascended into the midday sky, trees and rocks and rivers and lakes growing slowly smaller, the landscape spreading away in miniature. Save for when Simralin used the compressor to feed more hot air into the bag, they were enveloped by a silence so deep and in–tense that it felt to Angel almost as if she had left everything terrible in her life behind. The basket bobbed softly on the wind currents, but mostly it just hung there, steady and smooth as Simralin steered it to–ward the mountains north and west.

"How do you like it?" the Tracker asked her at one point.

Angel grinned and nodded. "Any danger of the bag collapsing?"

Simralin shook her head. "The fabric is one we developed. Very strong, very tough. Rain doesn't bother it. Even resists blades. A light–ning strike is the biggest concern, but our weather is good." She smiled. "Much better than walking. We'll be there by sunset."

They flew at a steady pace toward a gap in the mountain chain, the winds favoring a northwest flight. But Angel could tell that Simralin had considerable flying experience, working smoothly to keep the bal–loon on a course that carried it in the general direction required, ma–neuvering flaps that opened and closed in the bag, releasing small bursts of air to gain momentum or adjust height. She had learned to read and measure the movement of air currents and, after attaching the extra hoses to side ports in the basket, was able to change direction. It wasn't a perfect science, even when all of it was cobbled together. At times, they drifted off course, but the Elven Tracker always seemed to find a way to bring them back around, tacking first one way and then another.

The hours crawled by, a passage that felt desperately at odds with the urgency of their undertaking. Angel scanned the ground they passed over, searching for something more than changes in the terrain.

Signs of life. Signs of pursuit. Something of the dangers she knew she couldn't see, but were there, nevertheless. It felt safe flying hundreds of feet in the air. But she knew the feeling was false.

They gained the far side of the peaks and caught prevailing southerly winds along the west face of the chain that carried them north. The winds waxed and waned with the passing of the afternoon, gusting at times, dying away completely at others. They flew over miles of blighted forests and foothills, keeping clear of the chain's taller peaks, avoiding the canyons and defiles where the winds were treach–erous and might blow them into the cliffs. Although Kirisin was full of questions, his natural curiosity demanding explanations that his sister was hard–pressed to provide, Angel was content just to observe, prefer–ring the luxury of the silence that this wondrous flight afforded them. Silence was not easily found in the city. Until you were dead, of course, like Johnny, and then it was forever.

It was nearing sunset when they reached Syrring Rise. The winds had picked up a bit, and they were encountering gusts that knocked them about, requiring that Simralin abandon her efforts at answering Kirisin's unending questions in favor of keeping them stable. Angel found herself gripping the sides of the basket tightly. They caught sight of the snowcapped peak all at once, a huge block of rock and snow and ice rising up against the horizon as they came out from behind a group of smaller mountains, its mass rising far above where they flew, tower–ing over lesser mountains, over broad stretches of land, over everything for as far as the eye could see. It was the biggest monolith Angel had ever seen, but it was also the most beautiful. Here, unlike everywhere else she had been on her travels, save in parts of the Cintra, the air was clean and clear, and the details of the mountain and its surroundings jumped out at her in sharp relief She stared in disbelief at how pure everything surrounding this volcanic giant seemed, as if Mother Na–ture's hand had swept away from this one majestic setting the whole of the world's pollution and sickness.

When she asked about this, wanting to know how it was possible, Simralin said that it was mostly due to the work of Elves who lived on the slopes of Paradise, the name given to this side of the mountain. Her parents had wanted the Elves to form a settlement here, but the most they could accomplish in the face of opposition from Arissen Belloruus was to found a small community of caretakers. These few worked with what small Elven magic they were able to command to blend elements of earth, air, and water to keep at bay the rot and poisoning that had set in so deeply elsewhere. The Elves still had skills enough for this, al–though it was becoming increasingly clear that it was a losing battle. Their efforts in the Cintra were already failing.

She maneuvered the balloon toward the meadows that blanketed the lower slopes, vast patches of green dotted with wildflowers that Angel hadn't thought existed anywhere. She tried to remember when she had last seen flowers in such profusion. Never, she decided. Even within the Cintra, they had been confined to small areas. Here they stretched away in sweeping blankets that formed a colorful border between the forests lower down and the bare rock and ice farther up. She searched the mountainside for signs of life, thinking she would see some of the Elven caretakers that Simralin had mentioned. But there was no sign of anyone.

When she asked where they were, Simralin shook her head. There were only a handful, and these were scattered all across the lower slopes of the mountain. They were unlikely to find any of them with–out making a concerted effort. The caretakers were used to the occa–sional presence of Trackers and, for the most part, left them to their work unless summoned. There was no reason to disturb them here.

The sun had gone far west by now, shadows lengthening across the mountain in great, dark stains. The color was fading from the world, and the air was turning cold. Angel glanced toward the snowcapped peak; the failing light glistened in sharp bursts off the ice field.

"We'll need to take shelter before dark," Simralin advised. "Or freeze to death."

She brought the balloon down at the edge of one of the meadows, shutting down the burner and using the vent flaps in the bag. The bas–ket tipped on its side as it landed, and the balloon dragged it for a short distance before enough air seeped out to collapse it. The three travel–ers scrambled from the basket and hauled in the fabric, folding it over as Simralin showed them, gathering up all the stays and ties. When they had everything collected and disconnected, she had them stow it in the basket.

"No one will disturb it," she said. "We'll use it on our return, once we're finished here. Let's take shelter and make something to eat."

After gathering up their gear, she led them toward a stand of conifers at the far right end of the meadow, whistling softly in the deep mountain silence.

THEY SPENT THE NIGHT in a line shack used by the caretakers dur–ing their treks across the slopes of the mountain, a tiny shelter set back in the trees that was all but invisible until you were right on top of it. If Simralin hadn't known it was there, they would never have found it. The shelter contained pallets rolled up and stored on shelves and some small supplies. The visitors used the pallets to sleep on, but left the sup–plies alone. Food and drink were hard to come by, and they carried sufficient of their own not to have to impose.

Sunrise broke gray and misty, a change from the previous day and a type of weather that came all too infrequently. Looking out at the roil–ing clouds, it seemed to Kirisin that it might even rain. They ate their breakfast, and then Simralin had them stash most of their gear in a wooden bin. They would need warm clothing to protect them at the higher altitudes and food and water for three days. The climb up would take them one, the climb down another. That left the third to find and retrieve the Loden.

"Time enough," Simralin declared.

"If that's where it is," Kirisin interjected quickly.

His sister shrugged. "Why don't we find out? Use the Elfstones. We're close enough now that we won't give anything away by doing so."

They walked outside, passed back through the woods, and stepped out into the meadow that carpeted the land upward to where the bare rock began and the last of the scattered trees ended. The air was thin–ner here, and Kirisin was already noticing that it was harder to breathe. But it also tasted fresh and clean and smelled of the conifers and the cold, so he didn't mind. The air in the Cintra was good, too, but not as vibrant and alive as it was up here.

When they were far enough out in the open that he could see the peak clearly—a visual aid he didn't necessarily need but would use since it was there—Kirisin brought out the pouch with the Elfstones, dumped the contents into his hand, and began the process of bring–ing the magic to life. He had a better feel for what was needed this time, having found what worked when he used them back in the Cin–tra.

He held the Stones in a loose and easy grip, his arm stretched out toward Syrring Rise, and took his thoughts away from everything but an attempt to visualize the ice caves the magic had shown him previ–ously. Standing in the shadow of the mountain and beneath the sweep of the skies above it, he let himself sink into the quiet and the solitude.

Closing his eyes and disappearing inside himself

Picturing the caves in his mind.

Feeling their cold hard surfaces and smelling the metal veins that laced their rock.

Seeing the rainbow shimmer of the sunlight that seeped through. cracks and crevices, refracted and diffused, laced with bright splashes of color that seemed of another world.

Hearing their whisper, calling to him.

This last almost took him out of himself, very nearly disrupting his efforts to use the Elfstones. There was something eerie about that whis–per, a feeling that the voice calling was real, not imagined–that some–one or something was actually summoning him.

Then the Elfstones began to brighten, their blue light flaring to life within his closed hand, slender rays breaking free through the cracks in his fingers, the warmth of the magic spreading into his body and infus–ing him with a sudden rush of adrenaline. He kept himself as steady as he could, his thoughts focused, not letting the sudden exhilaration he felt overwhelm him. But it was hard. He wanted to cry out with excite–ment, to give voice to what he was feeling. The magic was intoxicating; he wanted it to go on forever.

A second later, the gathering light lanced outward from his fist, hurtling toward the summit of Syrring Rise, traversing the meadow and the wildflowers, the bare rock beyond, the stunted conifers that

Sim–ralin had told him were thousands of years old, reaching for the higher elevations. At a point beyond the snow line, but only just above the edge of the glacier and its ice fields, it burrowed into the white land–scape, encapsulating in a flood of azure light the caves they were seek–ing. He saw them again, more clearly defined this time, walls sculpted by time and the elements, ceiling vast and shadowed beyond the reach of the light, snowmelt churning in a river cored through the center, wa–terfalls frozen in place where they had tumbled from the higher eleva–tions.

There was something else, too–something he couldn't quite make out. It hunkered down in the very rear of the largest chamber, a thing crouched and waiting, all iced over and brilliant with silvery light. It was massive, and it was terrible; he could sense it more than feel it. It did not move, but only waited. Yet he had a feeling it was alive.

"What was that?" Angel asked softly when the light from the Elf–stones died away, and they were standing in the gray haze of dawn once more.

Kirisin shook his head. "I'm not sure. It looked like some sort of statue. A statue carved of ice." He looked at Simralin. "Have you ever seen it before?"

She shook her head. "I haven't been in those caves. Didn't even know they were there."

They looked at one another a moment longer, then Sim said, "The explanation's not here. Let's get going."

THEY BEGAN THE TREK shortly after, taking time out first to eat and then to wait for Simralin to gather together climbing gear that was stowed in one of the line shack's wooden bins. She brought out every–thing she thought they would need, laid it all out on the ground, and explained the reasons for her choices.

"The ropes are in case climbing proves necessary. The ice screws and clamps are to secure the ropes. The ice ax allows digging and ham–mering on the ice. The wicked–looking metal objects with the teeth are crampons. You attach them to your boots to gain traction on ice and frozen snow. The fastenings are spring–locked; the releases are down here by the heels." She pointed to the last item. "Be careful of these. These are needle gloves. Something new. See the palms." She pointed again. "Their surfaces are like the back of a hedgehog. Rub it the wrong way, downward like this," she made a downward–rubbing motion with her hand, "and dozens of tiny needles embed themselves in whatever surface they've rubbed up against. Their grip will keep you from slip–ping or falling. Very strong. They only release if you rub upward again. The gloves tighten with straps at the wrists so that they won't come off by accident."

"Where did you get all this?" Angel asked.

"Borrowed it from here and there." Simralin grinned. "I told you we knew when to take advantage of something good, no matter who in–vented it." She pointed to a bundle of smooth sticks. "Flares. Break them in the middle, you have light for an hour." She pointed to three lamps. "Solar torches, good for at least twenty–four hours of continual use. Also, the boots and gloves have reflectors that glow in the dark, just in case."

She pointed to their packs. "Food and water for three days–maybe a little more, if it comes to it. Blow–up mattresses and blankets, all made of Elyon, an Elven fabric, extremely light and warm. That's our sleeping gear. Ice visors to cut the glare. All–weather cloaks. Weapons. Knives for all of us. My bow and arrows, short sword, and adzl." For the last, she indicated the peculiar javelin with barbs at both ends and a cord–wound grip at the center. "Angel's staff. And, of course, if all else fails, Kirisin's quick wit."

She grinned at him. "Knife–edge–sharp, I'm told."

Kirisin nodded. "Very funny. You think that the Elfstones could be used as a weapon?"

They pondered it a moment. "Hard to say," Simralin answered fi–nally.

"Be good if we didn't need any weapons," Angel said. "But Kirisin isn't the one who should be doing the fighting in any case."

Simralin nodded in agreement. "You stay out of any fighting if it comes to that, Little K."

They took a moment to study everything one final time, a few additional questions were asked and answered, and they were ready. They repacked their gear, shouldered their loads, and set out.

They climbed through the morning hours, traversing the meadows and passing through the forests until they reached the upper edge of the tree line shortly after midday. They stopped then to eat, winded and hungry. Kirisin was sore all through his thigh and back muscles. He guessed from the look on Angel's face that she was suffering, too. Only Simralin seemed completely at home, smiling as if this climb were nothing more than a morning stroll. She talked and laughed as they ate, describing adventures and experiences from other times and places in–volving the mountains and Syrring Rise, in particular.

Once, she told them, she had come on a small expedition that in–cluded Tragen. The big Elf, still learning about mountains, climbed the paths to the glacier too fast, overexerted himself, lost body heat, dehy–drated, and passed out. She said the other Trackers had never let him forget about it; every time a climb was involved, they suggested maybe he might want to give it a pass.

She grinned, tossing back her blond hair. "Tragen doesn't think it so funny, but he lacks a good sense of humor. If he didn't make up for it in other ways, I expect I would have to rethink our relationship."

Kirisin gave his sister a pointed look. "Tragen's all right," he said, re–peating her words back to her. "For now."

They resumed their climb shortly after, leaving behind the last of the trees and proceeding onto bare rock and gravel. The trail disap–peared altogether, and the slope steepened. Kirisin was finding it in–creasingly hard to breathe, but he knew the air was thin and that after a time his lungs would get used to it. At least, that was what Sim had told him. In any case, he soldiered on, working his way behind her as they wound through the mountain's rocky debris, advancing toward the snowpack.

When they reached the edge, Simralin walked them forward far–ther still until they were atop the glacier, high on the mountain now, the wind blowing harder, dry and biting cold. Amid a shelter of massive boulders, she had them lock on the crampons, pull on the gloves, slip the visors over their eyes, and unsling the ice axes. Moving more slowly now, but still climbing, they passed out of the boulders and onto the ice. All around them, the glacier glimmered dully in the pale sunlight. The gray of earlier had dissipated at these heights, the clouds below them now, a roiling dark mass encircling the rock. But the day was pass–ing, the light failing as the sun gave way to an advancing darkness. The western horizon, refracting the change in the light's intensity, was al–ready starting to color.

"Not much farther!" Simralin called by way of encouragement. She had stopped a dozen yards ahead and was looking back at them.

Kirisin slowed, Angel coming up beside him. He hoped she was right. He was getting cold, even through his all–weather gear, and a tiredness he could barely fight off was settling in. He shifted his pack to a new position and began moving ahead again, then realized that Angel wasn't following. He glanced around. The Knight of the Word was standing where he had left her, staring back down the mountain.

He stopped again. "Angel?"

She looked at him, her gaze vague and distant, focused on some–thing beyond what he was seeing. It was almost as if she were in an–other place entirely. "Go on ahead, Kirisin," she said. "I'll be along in a moment. I want to check on something. Don't worry. I can find my way."

"I'll wait with you," he offered quickly. "We both will."

She held up her hand at once as he started toward her. "No, Kirisin. I have to do this alone. Do as I say. You and your sister go on without me. Do what you came to do."

He started to object, but saw something in her eyes that stopped him. There was a hard determination reflected that told him she was decided on this. Whatever she intended, she didn't want anyone to in–terfere. He hesitated, still uncertain, his fears deepening. "Don't be too long. It's starting to get dark."

She nodded and turned back down the mountainside toward the clump of boulders they had left earlier. "Adios, mi amigo," she called to him. "Lo siento."

He had no idea what she was saying. By the way she said it–almost to herself, rather than to him–he wasn't even sure she was aware of what language she was using. It was as if by speaking the words, she had dismissed him from her mind. He watched her walk away and wondered if he ought to go after her. He didn't like the idea of them split–ting up like this, not staying together when they were so close to find–ing what they had come all this way to discover.

But mostly he didn't like what he had heard in her voice. It sounded as if she was leaving.

It felt as if she was saying good–bye.